


(Hey, Now) Don't Dream It's Over

by ToAStranger



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Kind of a fix-it, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 15:56:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11786493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: There's a battle ahead; many battles are lostBut you'll never see the end of the roadWhile you're traveling with me--    Crowded House





	(Hey, Now) Don't Dream It's Over

**Author's Note:**

> F u C K. Never let me attempt non-linear narratives again.  
> Fuck. That. Shit.  
> This was tough.

XVII.  

He remembers the sunlight streaming through the shitty vinyl blinds.  Remembers rolling over in sheets that scratched a bit too much, but not enough for him to care, and muttering about running to the store to get something to replace them--

_ Lucky tore up the edges last time they left him alone in the house too long _ \--

or to finally get some goddamn decent curtains.  Remembers the heavy hand at his hip, the nose pressing to his temple, and lazy smile and hazy blue eyes.  

He remembers kissing that smile, remembers the warmth low in his belly, remembers tracing  along the edge of where skin met metal on the third finger of that hand.  Remembers the soft, half-woken complaint of beard burn falling over his tongue as a jaw in desperate need of a shave rubbed along the sensitive skin at his neck and collar.  

He remembers this, and many mornings like it, and nothing of the stricken, horrified wide eyes looking back at him now.  He knows he should. 

But he doesn’t.

 

IV.  
The first time Tony Carbonell met Steven Grant Rogers was at the farmer’s market on Main Street.  Tony’d been hunting for the perfect kumquat and Steve had been peddling plums.  

“--I really don’t want any,” Tony’d insisted. 

“Try it, I’m sure I can change your mind.” 

“Oh, so you’re just handing out your merchandise free of charge?  You’ll never make a penny like that.” 

Steve’s face had scrunched up; Tony’d tried not to laugh.  “Of course I will.” 

“Yeah?  How do you suppose that’s a savvy business plan?” Tony placed both fists on his hips; the summer sun had been hot overhead and they were both sweating, but Tony thought maybe sweat looked good on this stranger.  

“It’s the best business plan,” Steve had assured, thrusting out one of those plums again.  “Because I know you’ll like this free one so much that you’ll buy a dozen.” 

Tony bought two dozen.

 

XX.  
“So we’re not even going to talk about it?”

Tony doesn’t turn around. 

“We can’t ignore it, Tony.  It-- It  _ happened _ .  You were  _ there _ , with  _ me _ , in that place.  And it--” 

Tony closes his eyes, breathes slow through his nose, tries to remember something beyond the ice at his back and the shield coming down on his chest. 

“--it was good, Tony.  It was  _ so good _ .”

 

VII.   
“It’s  _ moss-coe _ , not  _ maws-cow _ ,” Steve insists over a cup of very hot coffee.

There is a fresh layer of snow on the ground outside and it’s still falling in heavy blankets.  Every person that steps into the little cafe stomps their feet on the mats in front of the door, obeying the chalkboard sign instructing them to do so with some amount of gusto, which Tony didn’t get until he saw who owned the place.  

Turns out, when Steve isn’t busy pushing fresh produce off on poor, unwitting passersby during the summer months, he’s running a tight ship of a cafe on the corner that every college student in the town loves to come leech the wifi off of.  Some of the professors too, if Tony’s being honest, because that’s why he started coming here back in September.  

He came back for the fresh baked croissants and the black tar Steve insisted was coffee.  And maybe the lively debate during Steve’s breaks.  And maybe just Steve. 

“Pretty sure there’s an entire country that would argue that point,” Tony says, humming into his mug, fingers still frozen from the trek down hill from the Admin building.  

He’s dreading the walk back. 

“Yeah, well, this isn’t exactly Russia, is it?” Steve grins, dopey and lopsided, the smile that means he thinks he’s proving a point-- same one he gave when Tony’d met him all those months ago.  

Tony gestures lazily out the vast bay window, fogging up from the contrast of heat buffering against the biting December air outside.  “Pretty damn close.” 

“Nah,” Steve’s grin only broadens.  “Our weather’s way better.  And we’ve got more cowboys.” 

“More  _ cows _ maybe.” 

Steve snorts, sliding another packet of sugar over to Tony when he sips his drink and wrinkles his nose.  “You’ve just never seen me in wranglers.” 

Behind the thick rim of his glasses, Tony goes flush.  “That an offer?” 

“Maybe,” Steve shrugs and stands when one of his employees hollers for him from the kitchen behind the barista bar.  “Ask me again in April.”

 

XXIV.    
Rhodey’s hand is big and warm at his back, rubbing circles and circles and circles.  Tony heaves into the bowl, nothing but bile in his stomach, eyes bloodshot and fingers trembling where he’s clutching at the rim.  

_ “Please _ ,” he rasps.  “Please _ ,  _ Rhodey _ , please _ .” 

Rhodey hushes him, lips pressed thin, legs useless and splayed out before him as he eases Tony through the worst of it.  “It’s okay.  It’s going to be okay, kiddo.  Let it out.”

 

XVI.   
He remembers the time they got a hole in the roof. The leak that wouldn't stop and the long autumn days filled with rain. 

Lucky had circled and circled the pots and pans, tail a constant threat to their precarious situation, the sound of water  _ drip drip dripping _ against the metal an incessant reminder that neither of them could patch the ceiling to save their lives. 

It seemed like a metaphor for something, but Tony could never figure out what.

 

III.   
“-- shouldn't even fucking  _ be _ here,  _ Nomad _ .”

“Not your call to make,” Steve grunts, always so bullheaded, grin sharp from under a dark mask. “You needed backup; I came.”

“I  _ didn't _ call.”

“Would you have?”

“No,” Tony hisses, dodging light and sound and burning electricity.  “Never.  I don't  _ need _ you. Or your goddamn help for that matter.”

It makes Steve falter.  Tony's smug about it for maybe a second. 

Then there's light light _ light _ .

 

IX.   
They shared their first kiss on the side of the road, surrounded by rolling fields of wheat, halfway between Idaho and Washington.  Tony's car broke down a half mile back, and he'd been trudging over the border with the heat of spring on his back and the cold brisk of lingering winter fogging his breath, when a beat up old pickup slowed next to him. 

“Hey, stranger.” Steve had leaned over to manually crank down the passenger side window.  “Need a lift?”

“And a tow truck if you're hiding one in there,” Tony'd grinned and climbed in when Steve popped open the door.  “Or at least a phone that's got signal.”

Steve passed him a clunky old  _ flip phone _ and Tony’s nose wrinkled the second he’d plucked it from his outstretched hand.  

“You disgust me.” 

Steve chuffed out a laugh, but hadn’t pulled into drive; sitting there, idling, on the side of the road with Tony in his passenger seat.  “And here I was, being a good samaritan.” 

“Worried about me, pumpkin?” Tony had bat his lashes, faltering with the phone halfway to his ear when Steve had twisted to face him, arm draped over the top of the wheel, expression pinching in earnest. 

“Yes.  Always.  Hell if I know why.” 

“Oh.” 

Tony doesn’t remember how he’d ended up in Steve’s lap, but he remembers the weight of Steve’s hands on his hips and the taste of his mouth, the slow drawl of the tow truck service operator buzzing somewhere beyond where Steve began and Tony ended.  

 

VI.   
“Professor Carbonell?” 

Tony blinks up from the blind, idle motion of the pen in his hand.  The door to his office is wide open and he wonders who did that when he remembers he has a TA for a reason and that reason is to remind him about things like his office hours. 

“Come on in,” he says. “How can I help you?”

“I actually have a delivery,” the girl says and steps in, in a slip of a shirt that she won't be able to wear for much longer, as the days grow short and the nights long, that reads:  _ be a slut, do what you want. “ _ Someone dropped it off for you in the main office.”

She sets down a large cup and a paper bag. The cup has a beautiful design penned along the side, swirling patterns of blue and red ink, like a star cluster exploding over the white of the to-go mug. On the paper bag, there's a note. 

_ Enjoy the jam _ . 

The paper rustles as Tony digs it open. His lips purse up at the sight of the dorky little sticker slapped onto the side of the mason jar; he regrets having stumbled into that stupid coffee shop on the corner more and more every day.   No place has any right to make coffee so strong.  Nor any right to have such a cozy, welcoming vibe, if not for the muscular distraction running the joint.  Steve's “I-Told-You-So Plum Preserves” is just the icing on the annoyingly proverbial cake. 

Or the jelly on the equally as annoying sandwich. Metaphors have never been a strength of his. 

“What are you working on?” the girl pops her gum. 

Tony glances down and doesn't recognize whatever schematic it is that he's drawn. He shrugs. 

“Nothing important.”

It looks a little like a gauntlet of some kind.  Or a glove.  He decides he's been spending a little too much time falling asleep to the sci-fi channel.

 

I.   
Tony wakes in a hospital bed.  There’s a bruise on his chest the size of Arkansas and his ribs ache.  He doesn’t have to look to know Pepper is there, to know Rhodey is there, to know Vision is there.  

This is all he has left.  

The letter that comes later won’t change any of that.

 

VIII.   
“I don’t really know anyone around here,” Tony confesses, boots crunching down into the snow where the heated sidewalk hasn’t successfully melted it away, fingers curled around the paper cup he’s cradling to his chest.  

Above them, the trees and buildings that line the cobblestone streets at the center of town are strung up in white faerie lights.  Tony tips his head back, watches his breath fill the night sky, and wonders why he misses flying when he’s never flown before.  

Steve nudges into his side after a moment, catching his eyes with a something that might be a smile, hands stuffed into his pockets.  “You got me.” 

“Yeah.” Tony breathes.  “Yeah, I guess I do.”

 

XXV.    
“What happened to us, Tony?” Steve asks and Tony doesn’t look up; refuses to look up;  _ can’t _ look up.  “We used to be-- we were--” 

“You know it was all fucking fake, right?” Tony snaps and he’s shaking.  “It was a lie, all of it, every moment was  _ a lie _ .” 

He doesn’t know if he’s talking about the vision-dream-bullshit thing they shared-- years condensed down into hours of nonresponsive unconsciousness that had Avengers new and old up in arms-- or the betrayal that seemed a lifetime ago but stung anew.  

Steve’s mouth presses thin.  “It wasn’t to me.”

 

XIII.    
Tony  _ wails _ , dodging around a corner, hay sticking out of his hair at odd angles, costume ascue, smile broad and bright and terrified.  Steve is right on his heels, laughing into the night, and they can hear screams and shouts and laughter echo back through the maze.  

While Steve may have a foot on Tony, Tony’s quicker, flighting around the edges to escape Steve’s big hands and ridiculous Ghostface mask.  His heart is in his throat, and if it weren’t for the saccharine taste of candy corn on his tongue, he images he’d be able to flavor the hints of copper with the way it’s beating right out of his chest.  

“C’mon, Tony,” Steve calls after him, having long since let the mask fall back and away from his face.  “I just wanna know your favorite scary movie!” 

“Not  _ this  _ one!” Tony shouts back.

He curses himself for risking a glance over his shoulder because in the next moment he’s tripping and Steve is falling after him, angling them down and into a pile of hay and straw.  Tony sputters, dust tickling his nose, and he bats at Steve’s shoulders ineffectually while Steve vibrates with mirth.  

“ _ Fine _ ,” Tony groans.  “If you really need to know, it’s definitely your morning breath.  Scariest thing I’ve experienced in my entire life.” 

“ _ Not _ a movie.” Steve lets out a sound that is supposed to be a growl, ducking down to bite at Tony’s neck, but his plastic face mask catches and nearly strangles him.  “Fff--” 

Tony’s head falls back when he laughs, and he reaches up to help Steve out of the tangle of elastic.  “God, you’re ridiculous.  Why did I ever fall for a small town dummy like you?” 

He brushes some of the dust away from Steve’s cheek as he goes still above Tony, eyes wide and blue, even in the very dim lighting of the maze.  He leans into Tony’s touch, lets out a breath like he’d been holding it for years, and leans down to kiss the corner of Tony’s mouth. 

“I love you,” Steve says.  “Marry me.”

 

XIX.    
The worst part isn’t the dreams.  

It’s waking up in a bed that’s empty.  In a life that doesn’t have Lucky at the foot of the bed.  In a world without Steve’s plum jam.

 

XII.   
He groans, lower back curving up, legs splaying open.  His fingers sink into Steve’s hair and tug, breath stuttering over his lips, mouth open and panting into the chill of their room.  

The AC has been malfunctioning again.  

Steve mouths over the curve of Tony’s cock, sucks at the thick vein in the side and holds Tony’s hips steady.  He hummed when Tony whines, leaving pulsing paths of  heat against his skin, damning Tony to a shuddering existence of sensation just on the edge of too much.  Steve knows just how to make him twist, just how to make the muscles in his stomach pull taut, just how to make Tony bite back a litany of  _ please please Steve please _ .  

Instead, he says: “more, god-- Steve,  _ more _ \--  _ jesus _ \--” 

And Steve swallows him whole.

 

XV.   
“I ever tell you how much I miss you when you’re gone?” 

Tony hums, curling into his side on the couch, hand rucked up under the bottom of Steve’s shirt, splayed out over his stomach.  Rod Serling invites them into a world of the unknown, a paradox of a world, where men with values fight on the wrong sides of a war.  Where would-be lovers draw arms upon each other.  Tony’s nose wrinkles and he shifts against Steve’s side, tucking closer.  

“Tony,” Steve chides and Tony blinks up at him.  “Where’d you go?” 

“What do you--?” Tony blinks again, then blushes.  “Oh.  Sorry.  Lost in thought there for a second.  You said you missed me?” 

“Yeah.” Steve shrugs, looking a bit embarrassed, which is ridiculous considering the fact that Steve had greeted him back home in nothing but an apron.  “House feels empty when you aren’t in it.” 

Tony considers this, lips pursed.  “We should get a dog.”

 

XVIII.   
“No.”

Tony shakes his head when he wakes.  Shakes his head and pulls away, practically falling out of the cot, butterfly bandage over one of his brows.  Steve is reaching for him and Tony  _ wants _ . 

He’s never wanted to fall into someone’s arms so bad. 

“No,” he repeats and Steve’s face crumbles.  “ _ No, jesus, no _ . Don’t be-- Don’t be--”

_ Don’t be over, please, god, don’t let it be over.  _

 

X.   
The first time they make love, Tony laughs almost the entire time.  Steve spends a stupid amount of time cracking jokes, never breaking from that boyish grin for a moment, looking all Apple Pie Innocent down at him as Tony wraps him up in his legs and arms.  

It’s only after Steve has found home in the heat of Tony’s body, as they’re kissing open mouthed and filthy, after Steve has shifted them and Tony has his arms draped heavy over Steve’s shoulders while he rolls his hips steady and slow and sinuous, that the weight of it all seems to stifle them.  Their hearts beat a little faster, their breath comes a bit shorter, and Tony can’t look away from Steve’s wide eyes. 

“Stay with me,” Steve whispers, rising to meet him.  “ _ Stay with me _ .” 

“Always,” Tony nods, a bit too quick, a bit hysteric as pressure builds and builds and  _ builds _ .  “Always with you, Steve.”

 

XXII.   
He passes out in his own vomit. 

Which… gross.  But not new. 

“ _ Jesus,  _ Tony.” 

Rhodes shoves Steve out of the way, hobbles over, and forces his legs to bend so that he can pull Tony up and against his chest.  Tony hiccups, clutches at his shirt, hides his face against Rhodes’ neck.  

“It was a dream,” Tony mumbles.  “It was just a dream.”

 

II.   
“Have you ever wanted something you can’t have?” Natasha asks. 

Tony doesn’t look away from the screen, from the familiar silhouette in an unfamiliar costume.  “You know I have.”

 

V.   
Tony steps into the coffee shop and his glasses fog up.  He stammers out a curse, fumbling blindly, and starts rubbing them with a scarf.  

His face burns when he gets a free coffee for his trouble and a lopsided grin for his language.  

“Well, aren’t you a dream come true?” Steve asks him.

Tony scowls, clutching his coffee close.  “Fuck off, Jelly Guy.” 

“It’s jam.” 

“Whatever.”

 

XXVI.   
The first time Tony Stark kisses Steve Rogers, it’s after yelling himself hoarse.  He’s red in the face, sweating a little too much, and Steve is staring at him like a man starved. 

“Don’t,” Tony warns, but Steve’s already got his hands on him, already leaning in, but he stops stops stops and touches their foreheads together.  “ _ Don’t _ .” 

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers.  “I’m sorry.” 

Tony groans, fists a hand into Steve’s shirt, and jerks him down.

 

XXI.   
Sometimes the only thing Tony remembers is Steve’s face when he said  _ yes-- yes, I knew _ but meant  _ I didn’t tell you, I lied, I’d lie again _ .  

Then he remembers Steve’s face after fooling around in the shower, after Lucky had slobbered all over his work clothes, after he’d taken Tony’s hands in his and said  _ I do _ .

 

XIV.    
“What’s that face?” Tony asks, propped up on an elbow, tracing out equations into the ladder of Steve’s ribs. 

Steve twitches, tucks a hand under his head, and stares up at him.  “I had a weird dream.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah,” Steve swallows, throat working and lips parting.  “It was a world without you.” 

Tony’s brows fly up.  “ _ Oh _ ?” 

Steve’s lips twitch.  “Yeah.  It sucked.  But not as good as you.” 

Tony slumps against his chest and laughs and laughs and laughs.

 

XXVII.   
“Don’t be a dream,” Tony begs against Steve’s lips.  “Don’t be a dream.” 

“I’m here,” Steve tells him, takes his face between his hands, kisses him until the tips of his fingers and his toes tingle.  “I’m here, Tony.   _ I’m here _ .”

 

XXIII.   
Tony remembers the Christmas their gas heater broke.  He remembers curling up under five blankets and Lucky, Steve’s arms around him.  He remembers roasting marshmallows on an old camp burner Steve brought down from the attic over the garage.  

He remembers how cold it was.  How Siberia could never hold a candle to that Christmas.  

He remembers being warm.  

 

XXVIII.   
“I love you,” Steve tells him for the first time, over Tony’s homemade shrimp adobo.  

 

XI.   
Tony takes his hand, and there is only the spring air between them, but his smile is still tentative.  Still tenuous.  It all feels too unreal.  

He shoves his glasses up his nose and shuffles forward. 

“I know,” he says.  “I love you, too.”

 

XXIX.   
“Honeybear?” Tony smiles and Rhodey knows there’s trouble coming.  “What do you think about a dog?” 

From across the room, Steve beams.


End file.
